


HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Four Fills

by sonicSymphony



Series: HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bullying, Crossdressing, Depression mention, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicSymphony/pseuds/sonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A variety of ships in many different situations, all written for the fourth bonus round of the Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lend a Hand; Eridan/Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nerdy kid trope where Eridan gets made fun of at school for liking military history, D&D, etc., and Karkat extends a friendly hand.

You have no idea why he doesn’t put his Dungeons and Dragons shit in his backpack. If he carried a textbook or two in his arms instead of his hardcover manuals and pencil case full of dice, people wouldn’t go out of their way to bump into him, knocking the supplies from his hands, or even go as far as physically slapping the stuff to the ground. One day, you asked one of the assholes that was a repeat offender why he did it, and he told you the dice made a really satisfying sound as they rattled in the case when it hit the ground.

It’s always bothered you that there are kids that still get picked on like this. You’re freshmen in high school, for Christ’s sake, grow the fuck up. But you wouldn’t get taken seriously if you told people that, because you always rant and rave and people just laugh, because you’re Karkat fucking Vantas and that’s what you do. Despite how acerbic and rude you are, people _like_ you for that. They think you’re entertaining. You like having a lot of friends, but you hate how everyone always thinks you’re joking when you’re being one hundred percent serious.

Today, for the first time, you stop in the hall as the D&D kid—Eridan, you remind yourself, you knew him in elementary school—stoops down to gather his things. The hallway is pretty much empty; there’s only you two and the guy who knocked the stuff out of Eridan’s hands, who is already pushing open one of the doors at the end of the hall to head outside.

The pencil case full of dice slid under the lockers, so you get down on your hands and knees and reach under there, groping around until you grab it. You retract your hand quickly and chuck the case over to him before frantically wiping your hand on the hem of your sweater. “Fuck, there are so many cobwebs under there, do people ever _clean_ under these damn things?”

You turn to look at Eridan, and he’s just blinking owlishly at you behind his thick glasses. Sometime in the past year, he’d traded his Harry Potter-round frames for ones that are vaguely hipster. Maybe he thought they’d make him look like less of a dork. “Um,” he says, continuing to stare at you like you randomly started doing the Macarena in the middle of the hallway. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Why don’t you put that shit in your backpack?” you ask, getting on your feet. You extend a hand to him, since he’s still squatting on the floor clutching his books, and he awkwardly shifts his load to the side and takes your hand. You’re surprised by the strength in his arms when you pull him up. “You wouldn’t be a target if you just hid that shit.”

His eyes narrow and you get the feeling that you said something wrong. Tilting his chin upward in a movement you’d almost call _arrogant_ , he says, “Me hiding my supplies would just make them win. They need to understand that I’m not the one with the problem.”

“Don’t martyr yourself,” you say dryly, “it’s just some dumb game.”

“If you’d ever _played_ , you wouldn’t call it dumb,” he says accusingly, derailing from the real subject at hand.

“I kind of prefer MMOs,” you say with a slight shrug. You’re starting to think the sudden superciliousness is a cover for the bit of vulnerability he first showed when you tried to help him out a little, and God knows you know a thing or two about hiding what you’re really feeling. “But D&D sounds like it might be cool, if you play with the right people.”

His expression opens up for a second, and that’s all you need to see. You have a feeling that this kid used to wear his heart on his sleeve before the world got to him. “Well, I _guess_ if you’re interested, you can come to the club meeting now. We’re about to do character creation for a new campaign. That is, if you’re not busy.”

You don’t have any extracurriculars, so you’re free. “Lead the way,” you tell him, and for the first time in years, you see the corners of his lips turn upwards in a small smile.

“I’ll walk you through it, the process can be tedious and confusing,” he starts as he walks down the hallway, you trailing just behind him, and then he launches into a discussion of class and race and feats a billion other things you can hardly keep up with.

This is going to be a lot more complicated than you originally thought.


	2. Mirror, Mirror; Eridan/Eridan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Trope- Mirror Monster. What if there was something in the mirror aside from your reflection? What if that something was looking back at you?

When you were young, you swear you’d see something move in your reflection. It would blink while you just stared; a lock of hair would fall in its eyes while your own locks remained perfectly styled; it would tap a claw against its hip as your hands lay stationary at your sides. For a while, it freaked you out, and you’d run to get Skyhorse and drag him over to the mirror, pointing and babbling incoherently about monsters. He’d just snort and nudge you with his head in a way that told you not to be afraid, but unease still sat in your stomach like a stone.

As you grew older and started discovering what it meant to be a sea dweller, you swore your reflection would whisper things to you and plant ideas in your head. Ideas of supremacy, of cruelty, of genocide. When you had a hard day of hunting or had a fight with Fef, you made a habit of pressing your forehead against the cool glass and letting the creature in the mirror guide your thoughts, allowing phantom fingers to brush across your cheek as comforting words of power and ambition washed over you. The thing in the mirror wasn’t something to fear anymore—it was simply a guardian, like something magic from a fairy tale that guided you when things seemed too bleak for you to go on.

Sweeps went by and you FLARPed and you fought and you resolved yourself to being strong because no one else could feed a Horrorterror as well as you could, and no one would ever be able to take your place as the quadrantmate of two wonderful/hateful girls. When the games of your youth turned into an apocalypse and both of the trolls you thought you’d be with forever deserted you and your lusus died, you were left with your reflection and your reflection alone, as no one else knew how to whisper the right things and appeal to your destructive side in ways that led to catharsis.

You gaze into the mirror for the last time, fists clenched on your dresser and posture hunched. The thing in the mirror stares back at you, expression twisted in determination and darkened by circumstance. If joining the monster chasing the meteor would turn you into something just as bad as the creature in your reflection, fine. It was a sacrifice you were willing to make in order to keep you and Fef safe.

What you never truly realized until you were two halves on the floor was that there never really was a monster in the mirror. It was always just you.


	3. Sloppy Makeouts; John/Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Parents Walk in at the Worst Time: a young couple is close to getting intimate when a parent barges in, much to everyone's horror.

Making out with an alien is pretty similar to making out with a human. At least, it is as far as your limited experience can tell. You’d seen some of the teeth on the other trolls; you’re lucky Karkat’s are a lot duller than, say, Feferi’s, or else your tongue would be shredded in seconds. Your boyfriend’s teeth are much blunter than average, and while that’s a point of insecurity in him because trolls are _supposed_ to have teeth like razors, you’re quietly grateful they’re kind of fucked up.

Lack of experience in both of you has made it so you haven’t really learned what to do with your hands yet. Right now, as you’re laying down on the bed (which he called a concup- something or other platform earlier) with Karkat on top of you, your hands solidly grip his hips like you’re trying to keep him there, and you don’t know if it feels good or what. You _want_ to make him feel good, but honestly, you don’t know if letting your hands explore would offend him or some shit. You how his hands have stayed away from your body altogether; right now, his fists are curling in the sheets on either side of your head to prop him up. Maybe trolls don’t actually touch each other when they’re making out. That wouldn’t make sense to you, but man, alien species are weird.

Just when you think you should take your hands off him, Karkat shifts, propping himself up with a single hand as he moves one of them to take yours off his hip and move it to the waistband of his pants, his lips never leaving yours as he does so. You take his cue and let your hand slide into—

“SCREEEEEEEEEEE!”

You jerk back, surprised, and Karkat’s eyes widen in horror as he jumps off of you and faces the giant crab in the doorway. “Go away, Crabdad, I’m in the middle of something!”

“SCREEEEE CLICK CLICK SCREEEEEEEE!”

“I don’t care about your damned claw polish,” Karkat seethes, “get the fuck out! I’m trying to take my matespritship to a new level and you are _ruining_ it!”

It makes some more hissing noises and Karkat pulls a sickle out like he’s going to fight his dad, and you just watch as they strife. Soon, the door is closing and Karkat is sliding to the ground against it, panting. “That damn crab just can’t keep his pinchers out of other people’s business,” he snaps, head in his hands. He glances up at you briefly, and his cheeks go red. Awkwardly looking back down, he mutters, “Sorry.”

“It’s… okay?” you venture, sitting up. “Is he coming back, or can we start making out again?”

“Christ, you have stamina,” he says, huffing a laugh. “Fine, just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

“Well, seeing as I’m the _Heir of Breath_ …”

“Please, shut up before you embarrass both of us.”


	4. Repeat; Eridan/Vriska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can't find the TvTropes title for this, but basically the trope is a character dying gory deaths or getting hurt repeatedly in almost every issue/episode, but it's played for laughs (think Deadpool or Kenny from South Park. Or, hell, Gamzee.)
> 
> God tier/dream bubble Eridan keeps running into someone who seems to find it amusing to kill/maim him repeatedly. Why he has a crush on such an awful person he has no idea.
> 
> (Whether or not Eridan gets off on it is up to you.)

When you find out Vriska is using alternate versions of you as dispensable puppets, you are _not_ happy. You make it to her dream bubble, completely prepared to give her a piece of your mind, but before you can get ten words into your rant she takes out her sword and guts you like a fish, right along your old chainsaw scar.

You die again on the deck of her ship to her and mini Condesce’s guffaws. Disappointingly, you wake up in your hive back in your own personal dream bubble, old pitch bubbling in your stomach like heated tar. Huffing, you start developing a plan to get back at her.

Every time you show up, you think you’re ready to take her on, but she finds some kind of fucked up amusement in killing you (though she’s _not_ really killing you, since you’re already dead and all that happens is you get transported back to your bubble again and again) so that’s what she does every time. Once you even get skewered with Meenah’s trident, and you can’t help but remember the way Fef ran at you before you killed her, with her shining golden trident ready to run you through and rage in her eyes.

The more you try to get revenge, the more you fall back into old habits. It’s almost a defense mechanism—if you go back to the way you acted before the game happened and manage to get back into a kismessitude with Vris, things will start fixing themselves.

“Listen, Eridan,” she hisses one day, her foot holding you to the deck as she holds her sword to your throat, “you’re so pathetic that you’re funny, most of the time. But this is the eighth time I’ve caught you trying to start something this week, and really, it’s just getting _sad_.” She presses the tip of her sword into your skin, and you feel a steady trickle of blood begin to flow from the cut and down your chest. “So instead of making a running gag out of this, how about you just fuck off back to your corner of paradox space and let me be? Your mind obviously never made it past six sweeps; you need to gain some damn _maturity_ before you try to play with the big girls, okay?”

And then she slits your throat. You hate it when she does that, because sea dwellers are durable and you lie there for about five minutes, choking on your own blood as you try to breathe before you finally fade away.

You hate Vris for what she said to you. _She_ certainly isn’t the epitome of maturity; just look at what she’s doing to all of the other yous for shits and giggles! Sighing, you decide that you will continue trying to get the best of her, because you need something to hold onto to keep yourself sane, even if it’s just an old rivalry.

As you die and die and die again, you end up hating yourself more than you ever hated her.


	5. No, Dad, I'm Giving Up *Your* Dream; Dualscar&Eridan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: no dad, that’s your dream; Mr. Ampora always knew his boys would go intot eh navy, he never questioned it, so why is it that Eridan insists all he wants to do is learn (and teach) about the history of war instead of be a part of it?

“Eridan, we need to talk.”

Gulping, you shut your book and place it on the nightstand. Pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, you stretch out your legs while still leaving room for your dad to sit on the edge of your bed. “About what?” you ask warily.

“I talked to my old friend Charles,” he starts. “You know, the one that works at the Naval Academy in their office of admissions.”

Ooooooooooooooh no.

“And he told me,” you dad continues, and you can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s already angry and is just waiting for the right moment to explode, “that you never sent in an application, even though I went to all of that trouble getting you a recommendation letter. Now, I said there had to be some sort of mistake, since you told me you applied.” He levels you with his gaze, and you can’t help but gulp nervously, “And I didn’t raise a liar. So he double checked, and not even your damn test scores were found, so why is it—”

“Look, Dad,” you interrupt, but he doesn’t let you plead your case.

“I wasn’t done, Eridan!” he yells, and you flinch back, eyes wide. “So then I got off the phone with him and found your laptop sitting on the kitchen table, so I decided to take a look at particular sections of your internet history.”

“That is a _major_ invasion of my privacy!” you protest, suddenly feeling indignant. “You can’t _do_ that!”

“I already did,” he says, shrugging. “While you live in my house, everything you think is _yours_ is actually _mine_. Anyway, what the hell do you think you’re going to do with a _history_ degree? It’s fucking _useless_ , and if you don’t go into the Navy you’ll break an Ampora tradition that spans over two hundred and fifty years. You’ve always wanted to follow into my footsteps, so why is it that all of the sudden—”

You’re afraid of what might happen if you interrupt him again, but you do it anyway. “I stopped wanting to go into the military when I was _eight_ and realized my vision was shit,” you say, and since all your dad does is glare at you, you continue. “I did the research, I really did, because you pressured me into it. I mean yeah, I could easily get a waiver for my eyesight, but you know what you’re forgetting?” You don’t give him a chance to reply, since you’re rambling and a little bit terrified. “I was on antidepressants in ninth and tenth grade, and with that bit of history, _they would not take me_ , even if I wanted to join up. And if you loved me, you’d be happy that I’ve gotten into some good schools so I can study something I really like, and—and—”

God, your throat is closing up and you feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, that’s _pathetic_. He’s still staring at you, so you swallow a few times and say, “I’m sorry I’m such a _disappointment_ , but I don’t want to do what you want me to. I’m _sorry_. I’m—”

Then he’s getting up and you think he’s going to leave you there, shaking and on the verge of tears, but he moves closer and _hugs_ you, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck as you try to get your breathing under control. “Hey, chief,” he says, reaching to rub your back, “hey, I’m not mad anymore. I… I know I’ve put a lot of pressure on you, and I’m sorry. Go study history, or something else you want to, it’s fine.”

You’re almost glad you started up the waterworks; your dad only caves when you start crying. Otherwise, he just continues yelling until both of your throats are raw from screaming matches. After a few more seconds, you push away from him and wipe at your face, and he ventures, “You know, most colleges have ROTC—”

Just to shut him up, you quickly say, “I’ll think about it.”


	6. Montage; John/Roxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Falling In Love Montage
> 
> "Two characters are becoming romantically entwined. Their first date is shown normally and the audience is shown how amazingly compatible the couple is.
> 
> A montage follows, usually with no dialogue and an upbeat or romantic soundtrack, showing the couple during a series of classic dates (the picnic, the carnival, the unexpected kiss, the meaningful eye contact, The Meadow Run, etc)."

“O-M-F-G, John, I can’t believe you remembered I said I wanted to go on a laser tag date!” Roxy exclaims, tightening her grip on his hand.

“Well, I thought it sounded fun,” he says, trying and failing to bury a grin, “so— _woah_!”

Before he can even finish his sentence, he’s being dragged into the laser tag place to the tune of Roxy’s excited chattering, and John lets her pick the vests and guns while she tells him all about _real_ guns and proposes a paintballing date that he finds himself agreeing to, even though he knows paintball bruises people up pretty badly sometimes.

They’re an effective team on the round they play together, and Roxy thoroughly kicks John’s ass when they’re on separate teams. As they try not to trip over little kids, they run around and laugh and have the best first date two teenagers could ask for. They walk away with Roxy’s name newly emblazoned on the Laser Tag High Score Hall of Fame, as well as rug burn on their knees from diving and sliding all over the place to get good shots.

“I had a really fun time whooping your ass,” Roxy says as she pulls up to the curb in front of his house, putting her pink Volkswagen Beetle into park before turning to smile at him. “You know, I’m sort of a certified sharpshooter, so I wouldn’t mind giving you some actual tips. If you wanted me to.”

“That sounds cool,” he says, already imagining her pressed up against him as she corrects his grip and teaches him how to aim. John thinks that particular scene could be part of some sort of romantic montage at some point in the near future. “Do you want to get some ice cream tomorrow? A new place opened up next to the Pottery Barn at the mall.”

“Sure!” she says.

“I’ll drive this time,” he proposes, eyes shifting to his beat up Honda Civic in the driveway. “Is three o’clock okay?”

“John, that is like, the _best_ time to get ice cream!” she exclaims. “This is gonna be _great_!”

“See you tomorrow, then!” he says, and before he can change his mind, he leans over and kisses her on the cheek before absconding from the car.

The next day, the lovebirds get ice cream, and they steal bites from each other’s cups. They go on that shooting date, and Roxy isn’t afraid to get up close and personal with John in order to teach him how to use that gun _right_. He takes her on a picnic in a forest of redwoods, and she brings him to a carnival and they do the stereotypical thing at the top of the ferris wheel. Paintballing happens soon after, and by then they’re reached the point where they go back do John’s house and spend the next couple of hours making out and kissing the pain out of each other’s bruises.

When they have dinner with both of their families for the first time, they hold hands under the table, and Rose divides her time between waggling her eyebrows suggestively at them and texting Kanaya. John and Roxy seem to enjoy making eye contact (of all things), because they grin at each other like loons as they do so, and Rose tells Kanaya, _I really hope we weren’t this sickeningly cute when we first got together._

Ah, yes, what a beautiful young couple. May their montages always be wonderful and sweet.


	7. Skirts; Eridan&Kanaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A cis male character crossdresses for reasons and finds that they like it a lot.

“My ass looks so flat in this,” you complain as you smooth out the slim skirt, grimacing at your reflection in the mirror.

“Well if you don’t like it, don’t take it,” Kan says through the line of pins in her mouth as she works on a dress someone in Indiana commissioned for some sort of flashy event. Dropping a string of measuring tape to the floor, she removes one of the pins from her mouth, holds up a fold of the dress, and sticks the pin in. “Just because we have similar body statures doesn’t mean you’re going to look good in everything I do. And if you want my honest opinion on that particular skirt, I’d say what you lack in ass you make up for in hips. Just wear a crop top with it and you’ll be fine.”

Sighing, you run your hands over your bare stomach, trying to imagine yourself in a crop top. You’ve found a couple of blouses—which are now in a heap on Kan’s bed—that you look good in, but a crop top..? Maybe you won’t grab one tonight, but you could try to work your way up to it; you’re currently stuck on a lower tier of the cross-dressing echeladder.

“I wish you had more shades of purple,” you comment as you sit on the bed, leaning back on your hands. You remember to keep your legs closed only because Fef wears a lot of skirts, and she always complains about how she always has to think about how to sit in them. _(“The only reason I wear them so much,”_ she told you once, _“is because they’re so much fun to spin around in. They really_ whoosh _, if you catch my drift! See?”_ Then she spun around in circles, her skirt billowing out as she giggled until she was dizzy and your heart was a puddle on the floor.)

“I know someone who owns a lot of purple,” Kan says in a singsong voice, smirking slightly. “I could ask Rose if she—”

“No,” you say quickly, face beginning to heat up. “Don’t tell her.”

Kanaya puts down her supplies and comes to sit next to you on the bed, coming to rest her hand on your shoulder. Her palm is cool. “This isn’t something you need to be ashamed of, Eridan.”

“I’m _not_ ashamed of it,” you say, sticking your nose in the air. “It’s really fuckin’ fun, and I look awesome. I just don’t want _Rose_ to know. She’d make fun of me, and I don’t think you’d keep letting me borrow your clothes if I punched your girlfriend.”

Sighing, she squeezes your shoulder before getting back up. “I truly think you have her mischaracterized, but that’s a discussion for another day. Pick one of the nice shirts and come downstairs for coffee, I’m sure the pot we put on was done ages ago.”

“Fine,” you say, reaching over to grab a jade, silky blouse with ruffles. Once it’s on, you can’t help but turn to admire yourself in the mirror, tracing your fingers over the delicate fabric. A small smile lights your face as you cock a hip out, and you agree that yeah, this skirt _does_ make your hips look fabulous.


	8. Regret; Terezi/Vriska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: These Hands Have Killed- During an important part of the story, our hero, or just the character in focus, kills someone or something. This death could be popping her murder cherry, or it could just be one of the first kills she thinks is wrong. Even if it was self-defense and completely justified, she still feels guilt-ridden. She looks down in a My God, What Have I Done? moment, shocked at her hands because they just became accomplices in taking a life.

You’ve spent a long time wondering why murdering Vriska felt so awful.

She was guilty! The meteor was under _your_ jurisdiction, and she was a killer that had no right to do the things she did. But after you identify the lump that permanently sits in the pit of your stomach as _regret_ , it becomes harder to justify what you did. She was on her way to becoming a monster, sure, but who gave _you_ the right to decide who lived and who died?

Vriska was your sister, and you hate yourself for even thinking this, but you _loved_ her. After all she did to you and all the shit she put you through, you still can’t help but love her, and you’re _disgusted_ by that.

To offset the revulsion your feel, you try to fix other things. You try to fill your quadrants, because Karkat and Dave are at least _fond_ of you (you don’t know why, after all of the horrible things you’ve done), but all that ends up on your grid is a bloody, fucked up spade with Gamzee Makara that makes you feel like the life is being choked out of you every second you’re still breathing. You try to fix your body, regaining your vision, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize what an awful decision that was, and a day doesn’t go by where you don’t consider clawing your eyes out just so things go back to normal. You try to alienate yourself from everyone else, because you don’t deserve companionship or comfort, and the silence of a dark room on the other side of the meteor feels like death.

You’re supposed to be a great legislacerator. You’re supposed to carry on the legacy of your ancestor. You’re supposed to be one of the heroes of this game, one of the few remaining to defeat the Big Bad and finally claim victory. But as you stagnate and rot with only your thoughts and a crazy juggalo for company, you can’t help but feel Vriska’s blood under your fingernails and think that only the most despicable troll would murder their own sister.

As you watch Rose and Kanaya become closer and closer, and as Karkat and Dave’s spats move away from pitch and into something you almost identify as pale, you realize they don’t need you. They don’t need a killer to hold them down. Every time you think this, you end up drinking, and when you stumble into your makeshift respiteblock and glare at your reflection with your “healed” eyes, you don’t see you in the mirror. You see Vriska.


	9. Stupid, Naive Richboy; Eridan/Nepeta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Sheltered Aristocrat- The Sheltered Aristocrat is a character who has lived a life sheltered from the everyday trivialities which the lower classes have to contend with. In this way he is pure and untainted by the hardships of the outside world. This results in a certain naivety and ignorance, despite the numerous tutors he's no doubt had all his life. When he is finally exposed to the outside world, it becomes apparent that the character is out of his depth.

You couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty seconds.

_Thirty. Seconds._

And somehow, your dumbass traveling buddy has disappeared by the time you make it back to the Alternian Freedombeast you left him in front of. It’s only your third time in the city that’s five hours from your hive and three from Eridan’s, but you needed a new drawing tablet and Eridan wanted to look at some of the shops, so you’d agreed to escort him and make sure he didn’t do anything dumb. But now he’s gone, and probably off doing the dumb things you explicitly warned him not to do.

You wish you could be a fierce huntress in the city and track him, hacking up anything that gets in your way, but since you’re an oliveblood, that could end with you getting arrested for disorderly conduct. Eridan has a much longer leash—he could _murder_ someone and simply walk away (oh Signless hopefully Eridan hasn’t shot anyone in the face, you’re not in the mood to deal with that) and you’d probably be in the clear as well—but since he’s not with you, if the tiniest thing goes wrong, you could get in a lot of trouble.

Sniffing in the air subtly, you think he couldn’t have gotten _that_ far. You almost wish he was wearing his ridiculous purrple cape so you’d be able to spot him easier, but you’d convinced him to take it off when you saw him standing on the beach waiting for you and looking like a complete idiot. He shouldn’t be _too_ hard to find, though; he’s a head taller than most of the midbloods and lowbloods milling about.

When you _do_ find him, it’s because you recognize his weird accent coming from a side street. Skulking in the shadows, you turn the corner to find him with his back to the wall and three trolls blocking his exit. He doesn’t seem to think he’s in a bad situation, though; his posture is relaxed, and he’s nattering on about pricing and quality and not even bothering to eye the sword hung at the middle one’s hip. He counts something off on his fingers then nods a little, smirking slightly. “Yeah, just give me a bottle to start. I have plenty of credits preloaded onto my card, but I haven’t made it into Forever 9.69 yet so I feel like I might need a lot of them. God, you guys have no idea how hard it is to get good protein shakes in the middle of the ocean, the ones I make in my blender—wait, what’s the lowblood term? Oh whatever, I don’t care. Anyway, the ones I make aren’t that good.”

This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. He’s really buying a protein shake from a group of trolls in ratty clothes that took him into a damn alley for the transaction? Something isn’t right. He takes the bottle and inspects it, and he’s about to take out his card to pay when you remember a post you saw on Tromblr a few days ago about a new way gangs steal from people.

“Eridan, _drop that!_ ” you snarl, and he does, more from surprise at your arrival than listening to your instructions. The bottle blows up right before it hits the ground, the contents becoming explosive just seconds after it moved from a warmblooded hand to a cold one. He’s lucky you were there, or else he would’ve lost some fingers.

The blast was a small one, designed to simply maim a target to the point they wouldn’t fight back as other trolls raided his/her inventory. As Eridan gapes at the remnants of the bottle at his feet, you shove past the trolls blocking his exit and stand next to him. With a pop and a shift in the air around you, his laser gun is in his hands, casually aimed at the ringleader’s groin. Turning to you slightly, he says matter-of-factly, “Don’t give me that look Nep, I’ve got this completely under…”

He trails off when your ‘what the fuck’ expurression doesn’t change and he notices the distinct lack of humming from the weapon. Glancing down, he sees the jewel that sits at the tip of his harpoon isn’t glowing.

“The Shitwrecker 5000,” a troll flanking the lead one says, patting her pocket. “It shorts out every non-bladed weapon in a fifty foot radius.” With a grin that reveales silver-capped, deathly sharp teeth, she says, “You’re _fucked_ , coldblood.”

Snarling, you shove him behind you, thinking only about how sad your matesprit would be if she heard you got her moirail torn to shreds by con artists. You’re not a crier whatsoever, but when Feferi’s eyes blow wide and start to water, a lump can’t help but form in your throat as well, so even if you and Eridan are hardly friends, you’ll save his ass. Stupid inclade duties.

As your fists clench, your claws appear on your hands just as the one with the sword rushes you. Growling, you spin under the blow he tried to side-swipe you with and gut him. The girl with the Shitwrecker is next, and you grab the sword guy’s falling body and shove him into her, sending them both sprawling to the pavement. Darting over, you step on her fingers repeatedly until she drops her weapon, and when her fist unclenches you can tell you’ve done some damage. A kick to her head knocks her out.

While you did this, the third guy has had plenty of time to rush you. You turn around and dance back just as he enters your personal bubble, and you don’t expect the weak psionic blast that trips you. Stumbling, you right yourself almost immediately and raise your arms to protect yourself, because you know he’s about to land a blow with his punching dagger—

But then Eridan tackles him, sending them both rolling away and ending up with Eridan straddling the guy. You hurry over to the pile, but not before the other troll thrusts out his dagger. Eridan moves his torso to the side as much as he can but he still gets stabbed. _Great_. You have time to watch it go through the fabric of his shirt and hear him cry out before you make it to them, and you simultaneously knock Eridan off and slit the other guy’s throat.

You check to make sure everyone is indisposed before sheathing your claws. Grabbing Eridan’s elbow, you lead the dazed royal fuckup to the mouth of the alley before turning to him. You swallow when you see his trembling hands pressing against his abdomen.

“It barely nicked me,” he says, but since voice shaking and his eyes are getting watery, you can tell he’s just trying to be brave. Muttering not-so-nice things, you carefully move his hands away from his side to take a look at the damage, expecting a gaping wound by the way he sucks in a pained breath.

It turns out the douche _wasn’t_ trying to be brave, because the thin line—right between two of his gill slits—lets a single drop of blood fall, catching on the waistband of his pants. You use the sleeve of your coat to wipe it and he yelps, but once you do that it doesn’t look like it’s going to bleed anymore. It’ll be scabbed over in a couple of minutes. Honestly, if you’d just seen a picture of the mark, you’d think it was a really long paper cut.

“Am I gonna die?” he asks quietly, lips starting to quiver.

Because he’s being so melodramatic, you smack him right on it. He shrieks a little and people turn to look at the pair of you, standing in the mouth of an alleyway and looking worse for wear, but you glare at them and they return to their business. “You’re such a _wimp_.”

“No I’m not,” he says, scowling. “I’ve swam miles with a broken leg before, okay? I know what pain is. The whole gill area is _really_ sensitive.”

“You don’t even need a band-aid, you’re fine.” Sighing, you loop your arm through his so there’s no way he’ll slip away from you before heading back to the row of shops. He sticks his chin in the air and purses his lips silently, not even bothering to thank you for saving him. What a dick.


	10. Rebels! Rebels in the Plaza!; Feferi/Nepeta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Take Me Instead- A character offers him/herself in exchange for the freedom of another, willingly turning himself over to the villain in order to buy the safety of someone who will most likely be a love interest or a friend, although sometimes it's a complete stranger that the hero just met but has nevertheless decided that it's his job to save.

You should’ve known not to go shopping today. The imperial drones are in town, asking for donations, but you realized what metal murderers they are. If they recognized you and Nepeta as insurgents, you’d be culled immediately, and the highest-blooded of your revolutionary figureheads would be gone. Nepeta is one of your best assets, and not nearly as many trolls would get assassinated without her help. You’re both too important to be out in public without any backup, and here you are.

She sticks close to your side as you browse the stores, looking for miscellaneous supplies you need back at basecamp: bleach, duct tape, shampoo (Eridan has been complaining about how his hairdo is wilting due to the combination of humidity and Karkat’s shitty one-dollar brand), batteries, and the like.

It’s a squirrelly ceruleanblood that recognizes Nepeta. He blinks once before his eyes go wide, and you notice him when he grabs someone near him by the arm and whispers in her hear, pointing desperately at the pair of you. It’ll be best if you pretend not to notice, you think, because they’re not making a scene—

“THE HUNTRESS IS HERE!” the blueblood screams, and you think, _cod dammit_. “REBELS! REBELS IN THE PLAZA!”

Nepeta grabs your arm and starts running as the surrounding trolls gasp and gape and some pull out weapons, and you stumble trying to keep up with here. A bullet goes whizzing by your ear and you grab her back, and you end up holding hands as you sprint as far away as possible. Nepeta herds you into a narrow passage between two stores, hardly wide enough to fit you two side-to-side. As you near the exit, the hulking body of a drone blocks your path.

You stumble to a stop, and as it reaches forward and grabs Nepeta around the throat, you know she wants you to run by the way she throws your hand away from her. As she chokes and the drone does its scan, all you can do is gape like a fish. It hasn’t identified you yet. You can still run.

But you can’t leave her!

“Stop!” you yell, getting to your feet. The drone doesn’t even turn to look at you; it’s occupied with a confirmed rebel. “Take me instead!” You run a sharp claw across your palm, showing it the line of fuchsia blood that beads on the small cut. Sensing the blood color, its head swivels towards you.

“I’m the Heiress.”


	11. Guess Who: Troll Junk Version; Dave&Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Tentabulges. Somehow Dave and Rose conjecture what Kanaya's genitals might entail. Now either Dave never actually saw Terezi's junk, or it's not the same as Kanaya's, because Rose gets something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could _not_ get AO3's HTML to agree with me so I got it looking semi-respectable and then gave up. **WARNING FOR NSFW DOODLE (kind of)**

  
[](http://imgur.com/HvAXk8Y)   


~

_One Day Later_

TT: Tentacles.

TG: youre fucking kidding me

TG: thats so weird

TG: how did you even handle that

TT: It actually felt surprisingly nice. The "nook" looked and felt rather normal.

TG: tmi i have decided i do not want to know


	12. Halves; Eridan/Kanaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Half the Man He Used to Be. A character gets cut in half, usually in combat but occasionally on accident.

“Hey, Kan.”

The hair on the back of your neck rises as you turn towards the source of the voice. When you’d fallen asleep, you’d hoped to have an undisturbed, dreamless slumber, but it looks like that was too much to ask for, because somehow you’ve landed yourself in a dream bubble with Eridan Ampora.

And by the look of his tattered shirt and the disgusting, violet wound running all the way around his torso like he was a tree that a lumberjack got halfway done with before deciding to abandon it, he’s the one from your timeline. It’s been one sweep since you killed him. As he stares at you with blank eyes, brow furrowed appraisingly, you wonder how long it has been for him.

“How’re you?” he asks awkwardly, like you’re still friends (you hate how he assumes you’re not mad at him just because you got some revenge) and you clench your jaw.

Placing your hands on your hips, you drum your fingers along your hipbone and say, “Alright, I guess,” in a clipped tone. “I’m alive.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. Huffing a small laugh, he says, “No thanks to me, really. But we’re even now.”

Quirking an eyebrow, you ask, “Excuse me?”

“Well,” he says, linking his fingers together in front of him and bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I killed you, then you killed me. I’d say that evens us up, in terms of vendettas and shit like that.”

“You didn’t bring the matriorb into consideration,” you remind him.

“I did, actually,” he corrects haughtily, and something pitch bubbles in your stomach at the tone. “Seeing as I actually stayed dead and you got to live as a glowing mistress from one of your dumb rainbowdrinker novels, I’d say you even got the good end of the deal.”

There’s something resigned in his voice that almost makes you feel bad for him, but you’re still so angry that he wrecked your species’ chance for survival that you don’t let the pity take root. An option pops into your head, and you decide to take it on with grimness. “Does it hurt?”

Taken aback, he blinks hard. “Does what hurt?” You gesture at the gruesome line around his middle. “Oh, that? Sometimes, like when I first sit down or if someone pokes it.” Shuffling his feet, he admits, “A lot of people like to poke it.”

You nod and palm your lipstick. “I believe I know a way to make us truly even, Eridan.”

It disgusts you that he looks hopeful. “You do?”

Uncapping your weapon, your chainsaw roars to life, and his expression drops. Once again, he doesn’t try to run as you cut him in half right along the old line, and he flops to the ground in two gory halves. You’d sort of like to stick around to see whether or not he came back to “life” or if he was honestly dead and gone, but apparently Rose decided it was a good time to wake you up. As your eyes flutter open, you decide not to think about Eridan again for a _long_ time.


	13. Honey, I left the kids!; Dad/Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: When the parents accidentally leave their young kids all alone because they assume their partner is watching them. Sometimes they've made a giant mess in the time it takes for their parents to realize their mistake, but the kids are always fine in the end.

The dial tone in your ear adds to the annoyance of sitting bumper-to-bumper in traffic. The road right now is as gridlocked as Congress; you’re going to be late for a knitting class you’d signed up for. You will to make your kids such nice winter hats, they’re going to be so fuckin’ adorable the hearts of innocent bystanders will melt into puddles of “aww”.

“Hello?” your husband finally answers his damn phone.

You sigh, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel. “Finally! I just wanted to remind you to get the load of laundry out of the drier, the timer probably went off about five minutes ago, and my pink dress for Saturday night can’t get all wrinkly, y’know?”

“Um,” he says, and you can hear him swallow. “Does that mean you’re not home?”

“Of _course_ I’m not home!” you say just as someone zips into the small spot that opened up between you and the car in front of you. You honk your horn, shouting, “Use your fucking blinker next time!” and they beep back. “I told you I was going to my craft class so I could become the Molly Weasley of the family.”

“Oh my God,” he says once, then decides to repeat it. “Oh my God. I’m at the Dadly Depot.”

Everything around you freezes, like time itself has stopped. Taking a deep breath, you say as saccharine as possible, “Darling, does that mean the kids are home alone?”

“Yes,” he replies miserably.

“ _Fuckinshit_!” you exclaim, banging your free hand on the dashboard. “Come on, Dadbert, get your shit together! John and Rose are _four_ , they can’t be by themselves—”

“I know,” he says, and it sounds like he’s running. “I know. I’ll be right home.”

Huffing, you resolve yourself to exiting the freeway as soon as you can to try and beat him there; the Dadly Depot is a good twenty minutes from your house, and you’re only fifteen because of this fucking traffic. At least the northbound lanes aren’t as packed as the southbound. “Goddammit,” you say as your goodbye, and you end the call.

You actually make it to the house at the same time, after breaking every speed limit in town without getting caught. You both dash to the door, your husband holding onto his hat so it doesn’t fly off his balding head, and you fumble with your keys in a rush to get the door open.

“Hi, Mom!” John greets you the second you stumble into the house. There’s whipped cream in his hair, on his face, his clothes. The can of stuff is in his hands, and you take it away, squirting some into your mouth for stress relief. Damn, you wish whipped cream were alcoholic, you could really use a drink after all this stress.

“Where’s Rose?” your husband asks, reaching down to pick John up even though doing so gets whipped cream on his dress shirt.

Looking up to the ceiling, John makes some thinking noises before saying, “I think she’s on the balcony.”

You share a terrified glance with Dad before you’re running upstairs, dashing into your bedroom and practically launching yourself onto the balcony.

“Mother!” Rosie exclaims, dropping the squiddle she was hanging over the railing in surprise. “You didn’t knock.”

Yes, heart attack over. Sighing in relief, you drop to your knees and pull her into your arms. She squirms and protests before petulantly laying her chin on your shoulder.

Fucking hell, that was awful, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been.

That is, you _think_ it’s okay until your husband comes upstairs and says in a solemn voice, “The couch in the living room is entirely covered in whipped cream.”


	14. Again and Again; John/Vriska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Reincarnation Romance - Two people love each other so deeply, and are tied by the Red String of Fate so closely, that they will meet and fall in love every time they reincarnate, lifetime after lifetime.

She holds a sword under his chin on the deck of the _Mindfang_ , and the wooden hull of the ship creaks as they ride the crest of another huge wave. The sea is agitated from the storm; rain comes down in torrents, soaking the crew, the ship’s captain, and the hostage.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut your throat,” Vriska says, pushing her sopping wet hair away from her one working eye with her free hand. Like all good pirates, she keeps the gnarled mess of her right eye under an eye patch that’s as black as her soul.

The merchant isn’t afraid. John looks up at her despite the water pounding on his face and grins. Despite his buck teeth, she finds the expression endearing. The kid has dimples, for God’s sake. “Because you can’t think of any good reasons _to_ cut my throat.”

~

“What’re you doin’?” she slurs at a man she’s never seen before, who is currently holding onto her wrist.

His eyes—they so _blue_ , even bluer than hers—dart to her, and he gives her a reassuring smile that makes her stomach flutter under the layer of pain. “I’m taking your pulse. Now, what year is it?”

“2014,” Vriska answers, and it’s harder to talk than before.

“Who’s the president?”

Snorting slightly, she squeezes your eyes shut and say, “Obama.”

“Hey,” she hears him say, “don’t drop out on me. Open your eyes.”

It takes a great amount of effort, but she manages to. “Can you stop wi’ the twen-y questions routine and jus’ tell me wha’s wrong?”

“You crashed your motorcycle.” His voice is soothing. “Just hang on, everything’s gonna be okay.”

For some reason, even though she’s in more pain than she ever thought existed, she believes him.

~

“What are you doing in Riften?” the blacksmith asks, leaning against the wooden railing of the inn’s porch.

“Adventuring!” the lady dressed in dark blue responds, crossing her arms over her chest. “There’s a dragon attacking Winterhold, and I’m the only one that can stop it.”

He raises his eyebrows at her skeptically, but the tilt of his lips tells her he’s flirting. “You’re going to need a bigger sword. I think I have just the thing.”

~

“Is this seat taken?”

John looks up at the girl. She doesn’t wait for a response, plopping herself down in the empty spot next to him, and he doubts she would’ve walked away if he’d told her no. He notices that the lecture hall has filled up considerably; God, there must be three hundred people in here, college is _weird_. There were this many people in his entire school back home.

“I’m John,” he introduces, silently cursing himself for not bringing a whoopee cushion or a pin so she would’ve sat on one of them. He’s sure her reaction would be hilarious, even if that’s a juvenile prank by now. Even the most experienced of jokers should stay true to their roots. “I can already tell this class is going to suck.”

“Vriska,” she says, and he immediately likes her a bit more because her name is weird and he likes weird things. “And I’m only here because if I don’t get a degree I’ll be disowned, so _everything_ about this experience sucks for me.”

John hopes he can change her mind about that.

~

_“I can accept that you are an alien, but come on. Meeting an alien who is also a GHOST in my front yard is a bit much to believe.”_

_“It is almost too awesome. So you don't remember anything about the game at all, then? The destruction of your planet? Bringing your ancestor back to life as a clown woman? Putting a huge flaming ocean out with your magical wind? Jack Noir? Dying, resurrecting, and possibly dying again? Is any of this tickling your sponge?”_

_“Hmm... Nope. Sounds cool though.”_

_“Fuck, I cannot belieeeeeeeeve how cold it is on this planet. How can any species possibly be able to survive somewhere like this?”_

_“Yeah, I thought you looked pretty cold out here. So I brought you this jacket.”_

_“Oh. Okay.”_


	15. Fuck You; Signless/Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dying Declaration of Hate. Since he's about to be executed anyway, the Signless tells everyone exactly what he thinks of them. In great detail.

“All of you _suck_! Holy fucking shit, I have never had the abject pleasure to preach to such a dimwitted crowd. All of you act like you’re waiting for me to scream and wail in pain and repent and all that, but I know some of you—like _you_ ; yes, you in the second row with the twisty horns and brown tunic—came to my penultimate sermon just a few nights ago. I seem to remember you were in the mosh pit _someone_ decided to start. Yes, Mituna, _you_. Fuck, I can’t believe some of the creepy shit you do sometimes, you know? I mean yeah, you’re a former slave that was treated like shit, but you needed to stick with the whole ‘love and equality’ game plan. Could you not get it through your thick skull that I never wanted devotion?! Except now I’m going to edit my previous sermons and say that instead of loving each other and sitting in fields and making flower crowns, fuck everybody; you didn’t listen to me and now you’re going to rot in oppression forever. Sucks to be you, at least I’m about to get executed.

“Hey, don’t draw that bow, I’m not finished! But that brings me to my next point: fucking _Darkleer_. Not, like, pailing with Darkleer, because gross, but you get the point. You act like I’m a fucking _idiot_ , like I didn’t recognize you when you asked that dumbfuck question about Imperial spies. Do you think I only have one brain cell?! Close your big moronic mouth, that was a rhetorical question. Meulin, why are you grabbing my leggings? Oh, whatever, I’ve accepted you’re weird as fuck. And while we’re on this topic, darling, I’m going to say fuck the quadrant grid into oblivion. Who fucking _needs_ that thing, anyway? Just do what I do and smear them all together with one person! I promise it’s great.

“But anyway, back to the population at large. The Mother Grub must’ve shat you all off a cliff at birth, because you truly are the most repugnant excuses for trolls I’ve ever laid eyes on. YES, the entire planet expect for me. Even our _wonderful_ Empress! Fuck you, and you, and yeah you in the green cowering behind that burly woman, and you and you…

“Oh, and Mother, you always burnt the cookies.”

By the time the E%ecutor decided to finally end the Signless Sufferer’s life, even his closest comrades thought it was time.


	16. The Perfect Pocket; Eridan/Roxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Unorthodox Holstering- That cool, different way to hold your gun.

“Come on,” the Imperial officer says, tapping his foot impatiently. “Hand over the gun.”

Making an effort to look especially put out, you unsling your rifle from over your shoulder. You move to give it to him, but he takes a step back when you do so, his grip tightening on the stock of his own glowing blue gun. “Put it on the ground and slide it over.”

You do exactly that, nudging it across the floor with your toe. The officer—it says his name and rank on the plate over his medals, you think, but you can’t read Alternian well enough to decipher it—picks it up and with a soft _snap_ , it’s transported into his sylladex. His shoulders seem to relax a bit once your gun is out of the picture, even though you were never going to _hurt_ him, come on! What does he think you are, some kind of rowdy gunslinger that works in illegal trade on the fringes of his great Empire?

…Okay, that’s _exactly_ what you are. But that doesn’t mean you go out of your way to be rude!

“Identification code?” he asks, pulling a tablet from his pants pocket.

“Don’t have one,” you say in perfect Alternian—hey, just because you don’t read it doesn’t mean you can’t speak it—smirking when his eyebrows shoot up. “I was born on a fringe colony, they don’t give you an ident there, Mr. Suckerfish.”

“You will refer to me as Admiral Ampora,” he snaps, fingers tapping on his device. “Not Mr. Suckerfish.”

“Ouch,” you say, huffing a laugh, “more like Mr. Pufferfish, no need to get so defensive.”

He sighs like you’re everything that’s wrong with the universe (and since you’re a lawless brigand in his eyes, maybe that’s exactly what you are to him), his glance darting up from the records on his tablet to look at you. His eyes are magnified by his thick glasses, and you think your irises are complements, your pink to his purple. Ampora looks back down at his tablet again, saying, “I’ll need to take you in for questioning, seeing as I found you running about in an Officers Only zone. Now, if you’ll come with me…”

“Nah,” you say nonchalantly, and then in one fluid movement you whip out the pistol you had holstered between your boobs; cleavage pockets are perfect extra hiding places. His own gun is halfway up when you cock yours and turn off the safety, and the officer freezes, staring down the barrel of your small weapon. “I think I’m gonna go now. Bye! It was nice meeting you, and maybe if we met under other circumstances…” You waggle your eyebrows, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. This serves to fluster him, just like you hoped it would, and he turns purple to the tips of his fins.

You back out of the room slowly, and when he makes a move to aim his rifle, you shoot him straight through the knee. When he goes down, you feel a bit of sympathy for him; by the looks of it, that’s going to need an impressive amount of surgery. Oops.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Dirk asks when you get back to the ship and flop down on his lap. Your pistol has been returned to your cleavage, right where it belongs.

“Had to get a new rifle,” you say, smiling wistfully as you remember the plasma dual-core you’d managed to swipe down at the loading docks. “Some imperial officer with a stick up his ass took mine.”

Dirk makes a ‘hmm’ noise that you’re used to from him. He wants to know if you’re okay.

“That dude didn’t even know what hit him,” you laugh, patting his knee. “God, Alternians are so _dumb_!”


	17. Picked It Up On the Way; Eridan/Nepeta, Eridan&Feferi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Convenience Store Gift Shopping- A gift which the giver has clearly put little time or thought into, and usually of little use/relevance to the recipient.

Your tenth wriggling day is a _big_ one. The biggest, some might argue. Once the majority of the trolls on Alternia turn ten, you’ll be assimilated into the Empire at large—or in your particular case, start a rebellion, but that’s not entirely important at this point in time since you’re on the older side of the spectrum so you’ve still got a while. As you’ve never turned down an opportunity to show off, even with the Condesce about to knock on your door, you decided to throw the best goddamn party Alternia has ever seen.

…That would’ve been an easier task to accomplish if you knew _how_ to throw a party. And if you actually had friends.

The list of invitees consists of every troll you’ve ever met that you didn’t immediately hate platonically. You contacted a few people you used to FLARP with that are still alive, your quadrantmates—your moirail Fef (you have no fuckin’ idea how the hell you managed to work shit out enough to get to the almost _blissful_ point where you are now) and your kismesis Nep—the latter’s moirail, Equius, and Fef’s matesprit, Sollux. His moirail Aradia tagged along, and she brought Tavros, who has shiny new robot legs and a suspicious pair of lumps on his back. Kar and Kan made the trip, luckily, and Gamzee and Terezi decided to show their ugly mugs. Vris came to try and _crash_ your party, but then she noticed the open bar and decided to get drunk into oblivion instead. Out of your pages-long list of invitees, only about fifteen showed up, and you wrote that off to them being culled. Not because you’re a pernicious piece of shit that nobody likes. Nope.

You unwrap the large parcel Fef just handed to you, unable to contain your grin at getting a present. Whoever said giving is better than getting is an absolute moron. Your face goes slack as you unveil the soft, gorgeous, violet piece of fabric. Running your hands over it makes you want to purr, and even though the feel of it makes your senses tingle with pleasure, you can tell it’s damn durable, and waterproof too.

As you hold up the new cape, standing so you can let the hem drop to the floor, Fef says sheepishly, “It’s actually a joint gift from Kanaya and me. I ordered and paid for the fabric and stuff, plus added some input about these,” she reaches out to run a thumb over one of the diamond-shaped clasps at the shoulders; they’re a fuchsia gemstone you can’t name, “but she did the alterations and such. And see, it gathers at the neck instead of having that dumb stiff collar!” She bounces on the balls of her feet a bit apprehensively, twinging her fingers together in front of her. That common mannerism of hers makes your bloodpusher flip-flop in your chest. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” you tell her sincerely, throwing it over one arm so you have a free hand to undo your current cape. It turns into a lump of old purple fabric on the floor, and you ask, “Could I have some help?”

Together, you put the new cape on, and it feels heavier on your shoulders, but not cumbersome. Solid, more like. You spin on your heel and take a few steps, making it billow out behind you and enjoying the _swoosh_ it makes. By the time you’re done testing it out, you’re grinning like you haven’t in sweeps.

You sit back down, ready to receive more gifts. Nep comes up next, holding something behind her back. “Happy wriggling day,” she purrs before plopping something into your lap with a gross _squelch_.

It’s a skinned, dead barkbeast.

“Nep, what the hell?!” you exclaim, shoving the thing off you. Oh god, it got gross rust-colored blood and meat juice all over your pants, that’s _disgusting_. You’re going to have to change immediately. As she cackles, you huff and say, “That’s the most half-assed present ever,” before storming off towards your respiteblock.

“Woah, woah, _woah_!” she protests, trotting along just behind you and trying not to get tangled in your beautiful, flowing cape. “Purrhaps you could elaborate on what’s so bad about it. I feline it was a _great_ hate-gift!”

Ugh, you hate how she trills her R’s, it’s so uncouth. And her cat puns are shittier than Fef’s fish ones. Fuming, you don’t even turn to look her in the eye as you accuse, “You probably just picked it up on the way, with no thought or anything.”

“I _did_ get it on the way here,” she admits, “but I thought about it for days before, I purromise! I’m not supposed to get you something you’ll actually _like_ , I’m your _kismesis_!”

You slam the door in her face and lock it, clenching your teeth. You go to your closest and dig around for another pair of pants, grumbling about how you’re no longer going to get her the serrated add-ons for her claws you saw online for _her_ wriggling day in a few perigees. Two can play at the shitty-gift-giving game.


	18. Carry On; Eridan/Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pep Talk Song- A song that contains encouragement, advice, and maybe a little tough love, generally meant to lift the listener's spirits or to help them when they don't know what to do.

You lightly knock on Eridan’s respiteblock door, pointedly ignoring the fact that Skyhorse isn’t around to hover imposingly behind you. When Eridan doesn’t answer and turning the knob tells you it’s locked, you call out, “Dude, open up, I travelled almost all night and had to rent a shitty dingy with one tiny motor to get here, the least you could do at this point is answer the fucking door.”

It takes a minute, but eventually you hear plodding footsteps coming towards you, and the door creaks open.

Eridan’s gotten taller in the half-sweep it’s been since you’ve seen him in the flesh. He’s getting closer to his first adult molt, and you can swear his irises are already tinged with the violet that runs through his veins. You’re glad that mutant red hasn’t already began to contaminate yours. You take in his limp hair and crusty eyes and blotchy face, and you sigh, pity making your bloodpusher throb. “God, you’re a wreck,” you sigh, stepping forward. His respiteblock smells like sweaty clothes and old, uneaten food, and your nose wrinkles unpleasantly. “It’s not like you to live in absolute squalor.”

He still hasn’t spoken yet, and you have a feeling he can’t talk without bursting into tears. Swallowing, you step forward and squeeze him tightly, and his arms wrap loosely around you in return. He buries his face in your hair, one of his cheekbones pressing into your right horn. “Want me to sing?” you ask for the first time in your life. He likes it when you do, because he likes to laugh at your monotone range, and you _really_ think he needs a laugh right now. You’d be entirely lost without Crabdad.

His nod is slight but you still feel it. Clearing your throat dramatically, you lean your forehead into his chest and begin:

_Well I woke up to the sound of silence_   
_And cries were cutting like knives in a fist fight_   
_And I found you with a bottle of wine_   
_Your head in the curtains_   
_And heart like the fourth bilunar perigee of the second dark season's equinox_   
  
_You swore and said,_   
_"We are not,_   
_We are not massive orbs of gaseous elements."_   
_This I know,_   
_I never said we are_   
  
_Though I've never been through hell like that_   
_I've closed enough windows to know you can never look back_   
  
_If you're lost and alone_   
_Or you're sinking like a land dweller._   
_Carry on._   
_May your past be the sound_   
_Of your feet upon the ground._   
_Carry on._   
  
_Carry on, carry on._   
  
_So I met up with some friends at the edge of the night_   
_At a bar in the capital city._   
_And we talked and talked about how our lusii will die,_   
_All our neighbors and quadrantmates._   
  
_But I like to think I can cheat it all_   
_To make up for the times I've been cheated on._   
_And it's nice to know when I was left for dead_   
_I was found by you and now I don't roam these streets,_   
_you’ve always been there for me._   
  
_If you're lost and alone_   
_Or you're sinking like a stone._   
_Carry on._   
_May your past be the sound_   
_Of your feet upon the ground._   
_Carry on._   
  
_My head is on fire but my legs are fine._   
_After all they are mine._   
_Lay your cape down on the floor,_   
_Close the door, hold the palmhusk,_   
_Show me how no one’s ever gonna stop us now._   
  
_'Cause here we are_   
_We are massive orbs of gaseous elements_   
_We are invincible_   
_We are who we are_   
_On our darkest night_   
_When we’re miles away_   
_Moons will come_   
_We will find our way back._   


You’re actually a little embarrassed when his rich, liquid tenor voice joins yours for the chorus refrain. Even small and broken like it is, his singing voice is better than yours by leaps and bounds, and his hand moves to cup the back of your neck.

  
_If you're lost and alone_   
_Or you're sinking like a stone._   
_Carry on._   
_May your past be the sound_   
_Of your feet upon the ground._   
_Carry on._

“Pale for you,” you tell him quietly, breaking the embrace so you can tug him towards his recuperacoon. You take off his clothes carefully, like he’s made of porcelain and you’re afraid to shatter him, and he hardly assists you. You help him get in and then you strip as fast as you can before joining him, snuggling into his chest as his arms hold onto you much tighter than before, like you’re the only buoy in the sea he’s drowning in.

“Do another?” he asks softly, and you pretend not to notice the tears in his voice. “And not more pop-y stuff, if I wanted something popular I’d turn on the radio. And maybe a little more pep?”

Reaching up to thread your fingers through his hair, you reply, “Fine, fine. It sounds like you’re asking for Troll Disney, so I will fucking give you Troll Disney.”


End file.
